


Keep the Darks from the Lights

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Messy, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Spencer's dirty shirts ends up in Brendon's bag.  Brendon's really not too upset about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Darks from the Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I spend Friday night writing porn about Brendon jerking off into Spencer's dirty tee shirt. Brendon is a little unintentionally creepy in this (sorry Brendon!). I think mostly I just wanted to read about Brendon getting off thinking about how hot Spencer is, since I've read a lot of the reverse (Spencer thinking about how hot Brendon is ...). AU because there are no girlfriends/fiancees in this story, I guess.

Brendon gets home at two thirty in the morning. He digs a handful of bills out of his wallet and shoves them at the driver. He's so tired that his eyes itch. He drags his duffel bag into the house, kicks off his shoes, and faceplants on the couch. Fuck going upstairs. He doesn’t think he could make it another five steps.

He sleeps twelve hours. The living room is bright with mid-afternoon sun when he wakes. His back feels a little funky. He sits up, rolls his shoulders, and stretches, reaching one arm way up. He's hungry, but all told, he doesn't feel that bad.

He checks his phone. No calls, yet. No calls, no texts, just a few stupid emails from Amazon, recommending DVDs and video games for him to buy. He deletes them.

There's no food in the kitchen; they've been out on the road for two months. There's just enough coffee left in the bottom of the can to make a cups. He drinks it black. He's going to have to go to the store later, but he needs a shower first, and to start a load of laundry. It's definitely not what he wants to be doing right now, but he hauls his bag upstairs so he can start unpacking.

They weren't super great about getting their laundry done, this tour. He unzips the bag and wrinkles his nose. Yeah. Things are smelling a little ripe. He dumps everything on the floor and starts sorting. The other guys have given him grief about it at times, but Brendon does his laundry the right way. He always washes his whites separately from his darks, and if things say 'dry clean only', Brendon takes them to the cleaner. It's something his mom taught him, when he was a teenager and his parents decided he needed to take on more responsibility in the house. He stood by her side and learned the right way to fold shirts, and that you should turn your delicates inside out when you wash them.

He's almost done sorting. He reaches for a balled up tee shirt and frowns. This isn't his. It's not all that uncommon for clothes to be tossed in the wrong bag in the frenzy of last minute packing. But he recognizes this shirt. Yeah. He totally does. It's just a plain black tee shirt, completely nondescript, but Brendon recognizes it. He's spent longer than he would care to admit staring at this tee shirt, stretched nicely over Spencer's broad shoulders. He's been caught staring at the way the vee neck dips down to show off the hollow where Spencer's clavicles meet his sternum. Brendon remembers this particular tee shirt well.

It's not completely creepy and weird. It's just, Brendon kind of has a thing for Spencer -- has for a long time, kind of, but it's gotten worse lately. He thinks he's pretty good at hiding it, because nobody's ever said anything to him. Not Ryan or Jon, back in the day. Not Dallon or Ian now. Not even Zack, who notices literally everything. If anyone were going to notice, it would be Zack, and he's never said anything jokingly or asked in hushed confidence what the problem was, so Brendon is pretty confident that nobody knows his secret.

He just kind of thinks that Spencer's really hot. He's totally not alone in this. Zack tells them the shit that people write about them online, sometimes. Brendon just laughs when Zack quotes from the Tumblr of some pre-teen who's gushing about how fuckable he is, but Spencer flushes and gets annoyed when Zack reads some quote about his 'flawless smile' and his 'crystal blue eyes'.

It's funny. It's totally funny, but it's not because Brendon feels like one of those girls sometimes. He watches Spencer, tries to memorize the curve of his cheek and the way his hair shifts color from dark to ashy blonde in certain light. He wants to press his lips to that notch in Spencer's collar bones. He wants to kiss down the length of Spencer's long, long legs.

Brendon swallows. Oh god. He's getting hot, thinking about Spencer, thinking specifically about the last time he'd seen Spencer wear his black shirt. They had been down south for the previous few shows, and they'd spent the mornings in the parking lot, messing around on skateboards. Spencer's cheeks and the bridge of his nose had burned red, but a few days had passed and by the day of that show in New York or Connecticut or somewhere cold and bleak his sunburn had faded to a tan and all the freckles had popped up on his nose.

Brendon really likes Spencer's freckles.

Anyway. The venue had been kind of warm, heat turned up high to combat the autumn chill. Brendon had been glad because Spencer hadn't worn his leather jacket. He had looked so good that day that Brendon had felt stupidly jealous of Ian for getting to stand next to him. He had wanted to curl his arm around Spencer's waist as they posed for pictures with fans and feel the solid muscle in his back. He'd wanted smell Spencer's familiar scent. He'd wanted to stand just a little too close, so their feet touched and their legs brushed. He’s spent a long time wanting those things, but he has never said anything. There’s too great a chance that saying something would ruin what they have, which is almost good enough, almost perfect, almost everything already. But the wanting just gets worse.

He presses his face into Spencer's dirty shirt. It smells like stale sweat, and it should be fucking disgusting. It should be disgusting but it's not. It just smells like Spencer, like the salty, masculine, awesome way he smells right when he gets off stage. Brendon's cock twitches. Oh god.

He shifts his hips. It’s not the first time, but he always feels a pang of guilt. He should just tell Spencer. Really. Spencer’s a good guy. He’ll understand, even if he doesn’t reciprocate Brendon’s feelings. One day he's gonna, but right now he's got other things on his mind. He slips one hand under the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. Brendon usually likes to keep himself trim down there, but it's harder on tour and his hand grazes his wiry pubic hair. He grabs the base of his half-hard dick. He's thinking about how fucking hot Spencer had looked, how that shirt had clung to his shoulders and his chest and how his neck had looked so long and pale. Brendon think about kissing the corner of Spencer's jaw. None of the guys he's been with have had facial hair. He thinks he'd like it though, the bristly feeling of Spencer's beard against his lips, against the soft skin of his face. It might tickle or it might itch, or it might be softer than Brendon expects. He would really like to find out.

The carpet is rough on his knees. It's not so comfortable like this, kneeling in the middle of a pile of dirty laundry, one hand down his pants, one hand grasping Spencer's stupid shirt. It shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't be hot at all, but it really is. He breathes in heavily through his nose. He circles his thumb and his index finger around his cock and strokes up, until he's right under the ridge. He pulls just a little. It feels so good. He tilts his hips to one side and sucks his lower lip in.

He feels too hot, boiling -- too aroused, too quickly considering he's jet-lagged and hungry and his back still kind of aches. He pulls his hands out of his pants. The elastic snaps back against his groin. His hard dick is visible in sharp outline beneath the gray fabric of his briefs. He rubs his thigh to calm himself, slowly up and down. The skin is pale and soft, and his rough fingertips catch, igniting little sparks of pleasure. He breathes in and out, trying to settle himself, trying to take this slowly, since it's abundantly clear he is doing this.

He climbs up onto the bed. The blanket is cool and smooth against his overly hot skin. He pushes his briefs down but not off. They bunch, mid thigh. Brendon lays on his side. He's always liked to jerk off that way, since he was a kid laying silent in his bedroom with a pillow between his leg, not even sure what he was doing, just sure that he shouldn't have been doing it. Spencer's shirt is still in his hand. Brendon wraps it around his dick, presses his thumb against his slit through the fabric. It's really soft. He opens his mouth and closes his eyes. His glasses are still on. They're pressing uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose, but he doesn't care, really. He's rubbing his thumb slowly, slowly across the head of his dick, back and forth. The muscles in his stomach are pulled tight, but he holds his hips still.

He is thinking about Spencer. He is thinking about Spencer's arms and his shoulders and the way the shirt clung. He wanted to go up to Spencer and slide his hands under Spencer's shirt and up his back, trace the fine straight lines of his shoulder blades. He wanted to push the shirt up and off, mussing Spencer's neatly parted hair. He wanted Spencer's arms to come up and find his shoulders and he wanted Spencer to pull him close and hold him tight. During that whole awful year when everything fell apart, and after, Spencer kept Brendon close, never let him get too far. This is just like that, Brendon thinks. This is almost the same thing. He doesn’t want that much more than Spencer’s already given him.

Pleasure radiates up his belly and down his thighs. The cotton is soft enough against his palm, but it's kind of rough and dry as Brendon starts to stroke himself, steadily up and down. He arches his back, presses more firmly into his hands. It's not the most comfortable sensation, but it feels good somewhere deep inside when he thinks that he's jerking into Spencer's shirt. The cloth wrapped around his dick was flush against Spencer's skin, was damp with Spencer's sweat, still smells like Spencer. It's getting all muddled in the confusion of pleasure, and there's something strange about the whole situation Brendon can't pinpoint, but he likes it.

He rolls onto his back. His glasses are askew. He doesn't care. He keeps stroking himself. The black fabric is vivid against the pale skin of his lower belly. His spreads his legs wide and reaches his other hand down and grabs his balls. They're heavy and loose and hot, a nice weight in the palm of his hands. He squeezes gently. He's always gotten off on that. He bends one knee and plants his foot to give himself more leverage. The bed spread is slippery. He's got hardly any traction. He licks his lips to wet them.

This is good. This pleasure is unexpected and it's good. He just wishes it was Spencer here with him. He wishes that Spencer's slender fingers were wrapped around him. Spencer’s fingers and hands and wrists are so fucking elegant and long and it’s weird that Brendon thinks that’s so hot but it is. He wants to wrap his own hands, his own blunter fingers all the way around Spencer’s wrists and feel the tendons shift as Spencer jacks him off. He wants to kiss along the line of Spencer's collarbones, up the column of his throat. He wishes Spencer would come to him and offer these things. Brendon's not brave enough to ask.

His chest heaves. He's getting close. It feels so good. He closes his eyes and he thinks of one show, this one show in particular where the stage lights were too hot and the venue was stuffy and they all sweat like beasts. And when they walked off stage Spencer was just ahead of Brendon, and he had sweat through his dress shirt. The white cotton was almost translucent and it clung to the small of his back. Brendon wanted to push Spencer up against the wall and undo the buttons one by one and lick the sweat from his breastbone, from his stomach, wanted to trace the path of his spine.

None of that has happened but Brendon imagines that it has. He imagines that Spencer smirks in that infuriating way of his and he kisses back, hard already in his dress pants, grinding his hips into Brendon's, kissing the corner of Brendon's eyes, nipping his earlobe. Brendon imagines Spencer's broad shoulders and his back, bare and pale, under the gorgeous purple blue red of the stage lighting. God, that would be hot. It would be so hot to sneak on stage, lights set and all, and strip bare Spencer bare and kiss him -- the inside of his elbow, the bottom of his wrists, the hollow his hips -- until his hair was mussed and his face was flush and his composure was gone and he was totally wrecked ...

That does it. He's not sure why but that does it. That image of Spencer nude on the filthy stage, skin dyed by the changing light, is what pushes Brendon's pleasure to the brink. His hips pump and his ass clenches, and he comes hard into Spencer's tee shirt.

The come is white and thick against the black. There’s a lot of it. Brendon's cheeks heat. Oh god. He lets the shirt drop to the floor. He's going to have to pretend that he lost it, or never had it, or something, because there's no way he can give it back to Spencer now, not ever. There's no way he'd ever be able to play a show if Spencer decided to wear that shirt. There's no way he'd ever be able to think of anything else, other than the way it had felt so rough and good against him, the way it had still smelled of Spencer, the way he'd wanted Spencer there, more badly than anything, but Spencer hadn't been.

He lays spread eagle for a little while, unable to muster the energy to move. He stares up at the white ceiling. His pants are still around his thighs. He pulls them up. His dick is still swollen and sensitive. It feels good though. He feels really good.

Eventually he shakes off his stupor and he gets up. He finishes sorting his clothes and shovels the darks into the laundry basket. He gingerly plucks Spencer’s shirt from the floor and drops it on top. While the washing machine is going, Brendon runs to the store and gets bread and cheese and a gallon of milk. He loads everything into the dryer when he gets back home, and then makes himself a sandwich. He spends the rest of the night on the couch, channel surfing.

Spencer never asks about his tee shirt. No surprise. They all lose shit all the time, traveling as much as they do. Spencer never asks, but Brendon wants to tell him sometimes, especially when they’re backstage right before they’re about to go on and the air is full of electric energy and Brendon’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and Spencer comes up and smiles that blinding smile and puts his hands on Brendon’s shoulders, stilling him. In those moments he wants to tell Spencer what he did, he wants to admit that the shirt is folded neatly and packed in the very bottom of his bag. In those moments especially, he wants to confess, and he wants to ask for more.

He hasn’t yet, but it’ll all come together, one day. It might.


End file.
